


A Very Visitors Christmas

by Riona, salanaland, VampireBadger



Series: Visitorverse [8]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Big family Christmas, Christmas, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Hugging, Kenway feels punching, Mistletoe, So much Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireBadger/pseuds/VampireBadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of Visitorverse. Altair, Ezio, Edward, Haytham, Shay, Aveline, Connor, and Desmond. Eight people linked across space and time. Sometimes they get along, sometimes they don't - and sometimes they have big family Christmases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was cowritten by Riona, Salanaland, and VampireBadger, three chapters each (nine total- so you can expect a new one every day through Christmas). It's part of the confusing, feels-punching mess that is the Visitorverse series, but if you haven't read that (or haven't finished), here's a guide to the OCs that appear in this fic.
> 
> -Shay and Aveline's four children: Philippe (13), Rory (9), Jeanne (8), and Tomas (7)
> 
> -Edward's daughter by Mary Read (therefore Haytham and Jenny's half-sister): Jacob (79). Yes, Jacob is female. No, this is not the same Jacob as Jacob Frye from Syndicate
> 
> -Connor's son, Matthew (17)
> 
> We, ah... we enjoy inventing children, apparently. :)

The whole thing is Aveline's fault, really. It's December 24th, and there's snow on the ground on the homestead, a thick white snow that's still falling hard and fast. Aveline sits by the window and watches in silence. She's not really thinking about anything, just letting her mind wander as she enjoys the sight of the snow gradually rising. She's thinking about the quiet Christmas she has before her, surrounded by family and visitors. Shay and their children are there of course, as are Connor and his aunts. And Matthew, happy at home with his father two years after they'd first been reunited. It should be a good day.

Shay comes in after a while and sits beside her, smiling. "What are you singing?" he asks.

"Singing?" She hadn't realized she'd been singing anything at all, but realizes now that she had been, sort of half humming it under her breath as she watches the still falling snow. She has to think for a moment to remember where she'd heard the song before, but then brightens as the memory comes back to her. "It's 'Let it Snow,'" she explains. "Desmond played it for me once on his computer, many years ago. It's a Christmas song."

"Why were you talking about Christmas?" Shay asks. "Desmond never…" he trails off, but Aveline doesn't have to ask what he'd meant to say. They've all known Desmond for years now, but he'd only known them a little while. Apart from a few visits he'd made as a child, visits he claims not to remember anymore, he'd known them less than three months. He'd never seen a Christmas with them, never celebrated his birthday. He hasn't grown old with them, the way the rest of them are gradually maturing (more or less) together, coming to know one another better and better as the years go by. He is just Desmond, perpetually frozen in that one moment of time.

"He _almost_ saw a Christmas," Aveline says, voice nearly wistful. "He made it all the way to December 21st, before—" Well, Shay knows what had happened on the twenty first. She doesn't need to say the words. "That's why we were talking about it, actually. It was about a week before Christmas, and he'd just gotten out of a two day long animus session." Shay scoffs a little at her side, and she nods. Two days really is absurd, but the twenty first century assassins _had_ been on a deadline. Unfortunate emphasis on dead. "I found him in a little corner of the temple, dozing off next to his computer. I asked him what he was doing, and he showed me all these Christmas songs he was listening to. Told me how excited he was for Christmas, all about these things they do in his time that he wanted so badly to do, but never got the chance to try. Apparently, a lot of his Christmases were rather unhappy." She looks down, ashamed. "I hadn't seen what was going to happen to him yet, so I… I'm afraid I rather encouraged him. I told him I was sure his next Christmas would be wonderful. I said maybe we would all be there to celebrate with him."

Shay puts his arm around her shoulders, and Aveline sighs. She's not the one who needs the comfort, Desmond is. But of course he's already dead—or maybe not _dead_ (she remembers the strange visit she and Shay had gotten from a one armed Desmond). But cut off from his visitors, which is nearly as bad. "I'm sure he doesn't fault you," Shay says. "For promising him a happy Christmas he never got."

"I wonder what he ended up doing on that Christmas," Aveline says gloomily. "I can just imagine him bedridden somewhere, perhaps recovering from having his arm cut off—"

"Don't," Shay says. "Aveline…"

They settle into an unhappy silence, and after a little while Aveline has an idea. "Do you think it's too late to give him that Christmas?" she asks.

"I…" he sounds like he's trying to phrase this so as not to hurt her feelings. Bless him for trying, but she's always been able to see right through him. "I think it may be too early?"

" _Really_ , Shay."

"He hasn't been born yet, it _is_ far too early for—"

"But what if we make this a Christmas for Desmond?" Aveline asks. "I still remember a lot of the things he talked about on that visit—of course I do, there aren't many memories of Desmond being happy to confuse them with. But we could celebrate Christmas the way he does, and if he shows up, we'll be able to give him the Christmas he always wanted."

"What are the chances of him actually showing up, though?" Shay asks doubtfully. "I haven't seen him in nearly two years."

And Aveline hasn't seen him in six months. He'd had such a short time with them that his visits tend to come widely spaced. Still. "He'll come," she says confidently. "If we do this for him, I know he'll come!"

"Aveline," Shay protests, but it's too late. Aveline isn't listening. She jumps to her feet, mind working furiously. They'll need a tree, that's for certain, and ooh, and mistletoe. She'd liked that tradition when Desmond had explained it to her. And as an added bonus, there's a decent chance that awkward kissing will draw him there all on its own. He does seem to arrive just in time to see all the awkward kissing between visitors. They can make cookies, too. And a Santa Claus—she's sure she can convince someone to wear red robes and a false beard.

She sees something move suddenly on the other side of the room, and turns sharply. She half expects to see Desmond there already, that's how confident she is of this plan, but it's Edward instead. Well—Edward will help. He's sure to think this is a great idea. Aveline explains everything to him, as quickly as she can get the words out, and Edward is nodding before she's even finished. "Of course!" he says. "I don't know why we never thought of a surprise Christmas for Desmond before. He's exactly the kind of person that would enjoy it, isn't he?"

"Yes!" Aveline cries, and Shay groans.

"You realize that today is Christmas Eve, don't you?" he says. "We'll be killing ourselves trying to get all this ready by tomorrow."

“Yes,” Aveline agrees.

“You also realize that _Edward_ thinks this is a good idea?” Shay insists. “That’s usually a warning sign.”

“Hey!”

"You will help though, won't you?" Aveline demands.

"I—if it's important to you." He nods. "And to Desmond, of course. Then I'll help."

"Good." Aveline is halfway out of the room already. "I need to go tell the others."

Shay follows behind, laughing a little and shaking his head. Edward comes as well, of course he does, he’s only visiting. Aveline’s missing the normal feeling that indicates she’s got a visitor, so she assumes Edward is visiting Shay rather than her. Well, good. She likes Edward. And he’ll make Christmas more interesting. She just doesn’t necessarily want to have him following her around for hours on end.

They run across Connor almost at once, and it takes surprisingly little convincing to get him on their side. Then again, he's been a lot more accepting of Christmas since it brought Matthew back to him two years ago. In no time at all, the house is full of noise and activity, as they start to prepare for Desmond's surprise Christmas.

 


	2. Chapter 2

In the Homestead, what appear to be an old man and woman sit by the kitchen fire, warming their aching bones.

"Sister," says the old woman, "I do believe our nephew is trying to assassinate us with these cookies of his."

"Aye, Sister," replies the apparent man, "he's surely trying to burn us out of house and home."

Connor pulls the tray out of the oven, flustered. "I have never made cookies before!" He frowns at the deep brown cookies edged with black, and sighs. "Not again."

"Why not ask the innkeepers?" suggests Jacob, the sister dressed as a man.

"I must do this myself, for Desmond."

"Aye, Desmond, that's one of your invisible people, is it?" Jacob asks.

"One of my visitors, yes," Connor corrects, glaring. "I had thought Aunt Jenny explained it to you."

"I did," Jenny insists, and Jacob laughs.

"Aye, that she did. So is Desmond around, then? Anyone else here?" There's an edge of uncertain scoffing to her voice.

"Not yet," Connor tells his aunt warily. "Were you worried?"

"No."

"Liar," Jenny says fondly. It's amazing to Connor how quickly his aunts became close; they'd met for the first time as elderly women but immediately acted like they'd known each other all their lives. "You were worried Father was here," she continues.

"No," Jacob insists. "Hardly a father to me, anyhow."

"Hm," Connor mutters to himself, carefully placing lumps of cookie dough on the pan. "Still, he was an Assassin, at least." He would never tell Jacob how outrageous Edward could be.

"Leastaways yours acknowledged you," Jacob retorts.

"Edward didn't know where you were," Connor insists, out of some need to defend his grandfather. "He didn't even know you were alive."

"Let's not play 'my father is worst', shall we?" Jenny cuts in. "Christmas is a time for enjoying the family and friends you do have, not complaining about what you don't." She adds, after a moment, "we don’t call ourselves Kenway, for good reasons; let's leave it at that."

“Desmond would, if he could,” Connor begins, only to be interrupted.

"Connor!" Aveline calls. "I'm ready; let's go get that mistletoe."

* * *

Connor stares up into the highest branches of the maple tree, bearded with mistletoe when they should properly be naked in winter. "Do we truly need this plant?" he asks in distaste.

"Yes, Connor. Why is it offensive to you?" Aveline asks, restraining a chuckle.

"It is a parasite. Also, it is used for a ridiculous purpose, or so you have said."

"There's nothing ridiculous about a little harmless kissing, Connor," Aveline chides him with a smile.

Grumbling, he climbs up into the tree, finding a clump of the stuff and cutting it off. He carries it down and handed it to Aveline, who holds it above Connor's head and stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "See?" she asks with a smile. "A pleasant custom of Desmond's time." Looking to his right, she grins more mischievously and transfers the mistletoe to her other hand, holding it above Haytham, who has just appeared. She kisses his cheek as well, eyes twinkling.

"Aveline!" Connor sounds shocked. "Did you just kiss my father?"

"Connor! How dare you suggest that I would ever kiss a Templar?" she giggles, then clomps back towards the manor cheerfully, even as she struggles with the overlarge snowshoes Connor lent her.

Connor frowns at his father, who stands watching Aveline almost all the way to the door, hand over his cheek where she kissed him. "I do wish she wouldn't do that," Haytham murmurs.

"Why?" Connor asks, curious.

"Ah...no matter," Haytham says briskly. "How on Earth aren't you hip deep in the snow as I am?"

Connor points to his snowshoes. "These are known to my people. But not, apparently, to yours."

Haytham harrumphs. "You watch, we'll steal it before too much longer."

"I have no doubt," Connor replies, striding along the top of the snow as Haytham flounders after him.

“Why was she holding up a plant and kissing me, anyway?”

“Christmas for Desmond.”

“I’m in. What do you mean, Christmas for Desmond, exactly?”

“We celebrate according to the customs of his day, and hope he visits to enjoy it,” Connor explains. “Kissing under the mistletoe is one such. And I am to cut down a tree and we will all bring it inside and decorate it, and I have been _trying_ to make cookies…” Connor flushes dark and says nothing more.

“What can I do?” Haytham asks. “I assume if my father or Ezio are here they’ll make sure everyone is properly kissed under that little branch.”

Connor thinks. “Stop the tree from falling on me and help haul it in?”

Haytham scoffs. “I’m visiting, I can’t stop it from falling on you. I’ll help you with the--what d’you call them?--cookies.”

“Biscuits,” Connor tells him with a roll of his eyes and a very faint smile. “But Desmond calls them cookies. Look, help me pick out a tree. It is supposed to be an evergreen and in this shape.” He draws the shape on the snow and Haytham eyes it.

“That seems a likely candidate over there.”

“It is too big for my house, Father.”

“Then that one.”

“It is shorter than Aveline and Shay’s youngest son.”

“You didn’t say it had to be a particular size!”

They continue bickering as they finally select a tree and Connor fells it. By that time, Shay, Aveline, and Edward have come to see if Connor has frozen to death, and are relieved to find him merely arguing with Haytham. All of them hoist the tree up to bring it indoors, although somehow Haytham winds up being in charge of opening doors more than actually carrying the tree.


	3. Chapter 3

Shay is relaxing in an armchair (not Achilles' armchair; he has no right to that) theoretically supervising Matthew and Philippe with the tree. He's also supposed to be stringing more popcorn and cranberries for them to put on said tree, but in all honesty, he's never been any good with a needle that small, and when Jenny made noises of exasperation at his ineptitude, he was more than happy to give her the job. Besides, he and Connor and Aveline brought the damn thing in from outside, _and_ he still has to split all the wood for the next few days, _and_ he's a quarter-century older than Connor. He deserves a break. Aveline hurries by with the red ribbon she's been tying into bows, but stops to give him a kiss that lingers into some not-quite-heavy petting.

"Disgusting," Philippe grumbles from behind the tree, where he's holding the strung berries and popcorn and handing them up to Matthew. "Can't you stop that for one second, Maman?"

"Philippe, your father is the handsomest man I've ever known," Aveline tells him with a laugh. "I see him and I just can't resist."

"You should be happy your parents are like that," Matthew tells Philippe, who sighs and shakes his head.

As Aveline hurries out, Philippe mutters, "They're so revolting."

"Hey, now," Shay tells him. "Your mother and I just love each other very much. Nothing wrong with that."

Philippe rolls his eyes and sighs heavily, handing Matthew an armful of strung popcorn. "I _know_ , Papa, but you're always kissing! Can't you keep your hands to yourself when we're around? It's not normal!"

"Huh," Shay grunts, stretching out his legs. "And neither is being a Templar, or an Assassin. So I guess you're just out of luck, Philippe. Your parents are abnormal _and_ they love to kiss.”

Philippe makes such an overly dramatic expression of disgust that even Matthew laughs. "Philippe, just lay off your parents already. I think it's so sweet that they carry on so when they're so old."

"Old?!" Shay sputters. "I'm not _old!_ ” He self-consciously puts up a hand to hide his mostly-white hair.

Aveline chooses that moment to walk back in, carrying an odd sort of red hat. "Shay! Love, I need your help again."

Shay grunts again and tries to push himself out of his chair, but Aveline stops him. "No, this you can do sitting down. Look, you're even wearing red! And you've got white hair!" From the tree, Philippe and Matthew giggle.

"What is it, then?" Shay nearly grumbles. Only the fact that it's Aveline keeps him from refusing.

"Well, you get to be the center of the celebration."

"I do?"

"Yes, you're Santa Claus."

"How am I supposed to be Santa Claus?"

"Desmond said he's a fat man with white hair and beard, dressed in red, who brings all the presents overnight for Christmas morning."

"I'm not fat nor bearded," Shay points out.

Aveline looks at his waistline thoughtfully. "No, for your age you're quite fit and stunningly attractive." There's a gagging noise from behind the tree that Aveline blithely ignores. "But you're wearing your Templar Enforcer coat and that fits the part well. And I made this hat." She slips into his lap and _bats her eyelashes._ Well. There’s no denying her anything now. "Please, Shay? For Desmond?"

Shay groans. "Oh, all right. Is there anything about the most beautiful woman in the world sitting on this Santa fellow's lap?" This time, there's two simultaneous gagging noises from behind the tree.

"See, I told you," Philippe whispers.

"Actually, _everyone_ sits in Santa's lap and tells him what presents they want," Aveline tells him, turning to straddle his thighs.

Shay kisses her, then groans as her words sink in. "Everyone? Even Connor?"

She laughs. "Yes, even Connor. But also Haytham...."

He rolls his eyes, smiling tolerantly. "After so many years, Aveline, still?"

Aveline shrugs elaborately and smiles. "All I'm saying is that I'm sure there's a present he'd like from you."

"And he'd never say as much,” Shay counters, their argument familiar after decades. "But what do _you_ want for Christmas, Aveline?" She laughs and snuggles into the crook of his arm, whispering into his ear as he blushes. "I think I could arrange for that. But not in front of everyone."

"We'll wait until sometime it's just Haytham," she tells him, eyes twinkling. He laughs and sends her on her way with a passionate kiss.

"What are you going to do when it's just my son?" Edward asks from behind Shay.

"N--nothing, Edward," Shay stammers. "How long have you been listening?"

"Since Connor threw me out of the kitchen for saying that thing about his cookies and Haytham wouldn't let me get drunk. Hey, Shay, you'll help me out, right?"

"Help you out with what?"

"Getting drunk. You'll get drunk and let me take over your body, right? It's all I want for Christmas. Besides a chance to talk to my daughters, that is."

"Probably best not to combine the two," Shay suggests, but Edward pays no attention.

"You'll help me out, won't you, Shay?"

"Oh--uh, I suppose."

"Great! I'll just tell Haytham to bring _you_ something to drink. He'll do it for _you_."

Shay sighs and pushes himself out of the chair. “Let me go take care of that wood first.”

Edward leers. “I bet Aveline can help with that.”

Shay just rolls his eyes, and takes perverse delight in dragging Edward out into the cold and snow.


	4. Chapter 4

“A tree indoors?” Ezio asks, delighted by the oddity of it. “Why stop at one tree? Why not make the entire manor into a forest?”

“You wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if you’d had to help carry it in here,” Aveline says. “And I keep catching Tomas trying to climb it. We had to take the candles off so he wouldn’t set the whole manor alight. It’s easier to keep an eye on the children if there’s only one tree to worry about.”

As if summoned, another of Aveline’s sons comes running through the doorway. “Maman, Jeanne won’t stop hitting me!”

“Rory,” Aveline says, patiently, “you’re hitting yourself.”

“ _Jeanne!_ ” Rory complains, chasing himself out of the room in a hail of blows. Aveline watches with a fond, tired smile.

Ezio loves being at Connor’s homestead at these times when it is full of people: Shay and Aveline and their children, Connor with his son and aunts. True, most of those present cannot see him, but the atmosphere, the house full of chatter: it reminds him of noisy celebrations with his family, in a life lost to him long ago.

He has always been most comfortable in a crowd. He works to rebuild the Brotherhood because he believes in its cause, yes, but the true reward is not that he has skilled allies to call on; it is the knowledge that he will always find friends on Tiber Island.

“So how do you know to expect Desmond?” Ezio asks. “Did he tell you he would be here this Christmas?”

Aveline shakes her head. “That would certainly have made things easier. But I don’t think visiting is entirely unpredictable, do you? I’ve always found myself with company when I’ve most needed it.”

“I have noticed the same,” Ezio admits.

“You see? Visiting is kind to us. If we prepare all this for Desmond’s sake, perhaps it is more likely that Desmond will appear.”

“Can we say that visiting is always kind to _Desmond_ , though?” Ezio asks, following Aveline out into the corridor. “He is so unhappy to intrude on private moments, and so extremely susceptible to doing so.”

“True,” Aveline allows. “If he doesn’t appear for the day itself, I suppose we can leave the decorations in place for a time, just in case. It won’t take much persuasion to convince the children we need to have a second Christmas.” Another of those children runs past as she’s speaking, and she frowns. “Jeanne, are those your brother’s clothes?”

“Jacob dresses up like a boy,” Jeanne says, defensively. “So do you, sometimes.”

“You can dress as you like,” Aveline says, “but do you have Rory’s permission to wear those?”

Jeanne hesitates.

“They were Philippe’s clothes first,” she says, hopefully. “Can I wear them if he says it’s allowed?”

“Go and change, Jeanne.”

Jeanne huffs and runs off up the stairs.

Aveline looks back at Ezio. “Sorry. What were we discussing?”

Ezio has to think for a moment to remember himself. “Desmond. What if he does not appear at all?”

“Ah, yes,” Aveline says, beginning to walk again; Ezio follows. “Then we should think of it as an interesting opportunity to sample the customs of another time. For example...”

She has been moving with purpose towards the front door of the manor, as if planning to step out into the snow, but here she halts, turns around, gives Ezio a quick kiss on his cheek. She steps back, smiling at him.

Ezio smiles back. “A fine custom. Tell me more.”

“You see the mistletoe above us?” Aveline asks.

Ezio looks up. “I see it.”

“In Desmond’s time, if two people meet under the mistletoe, they are to kiss.”

Ezio considers this.

“Could you by any chance stay near this area?” he asks.

Aveline laughs. “Within visiting range of the mistletoe, you mean? Perhaps not all day, I’m afraid.”

The door opens and Shay comes in, Edward close behind him.

“The wood’s been split,” Shay says, stamping the snow from his boots. “Should last us for the next few days. Morning, Ez—”

Ezio seizes him and dips him in a deep kiss. Shay makes a startled noise and grabs Ezio’s lapels, although perhaps that’s just to keep his balance. Edward bursts out laughing.

“Like that?” Ezio asks eventually, letting go.

“Perhaps a little less... aggressive,” Aveline says, not quite hiding her smile. “Particularly where my husband is concerned.”

“Jesus,” Shay says, his voice weak, as Ezio lunges for Edward. “Aveline, I told you not to tell him about the bloody mistletoe.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: Tomas's point of view
> 
> Or: What does all this visiting stuff look like from the point of view of someone that doesn't know anything about visitors?
> 
> (...Or: there are three coauthors and eight visitors and eight is not divisible by three)

Tomas has no idea why everyone is so excited about Christmas this year. Christmases are always fun, because there's lots of good food and Tomas is sometimes allowed to stay up all night. And one year it had snowed, and Tomas had dropped a whole big handful down the back of Rory's shirt before his brother noticed. That was the best Christmas, even if Rory had sat on him for an hour after that in revenge.

This Christmas doesn't seem all that special, but everyone's acting like it's supposed to be a really big deal. All the grownups are doing weird things, like bringing a whole tree inside (except Tomas isn't allowed to climb it and he doesn't know why else they'd bother bringing it in). And there's some weird plant on the ceiling. And maman and papa keep kissing under it which is really, really gross. And no one will tell him what's really going on. Papa said it's a special Christmas for one of his invisible friends, but then Philippe said that's stupid because invisible friends are stupid and not real, and now Tomas has absolutely no idea what's going on.

He goes wandering around the house, looking for someone to talk to, and finds Jeanne and Rory arguing in one of the bedrooms. Tomas hovers in the doorway, listening to them shouting at each other. Rory is mad at Jeanne for stealing his clothes. Jeanne is mad at Rory for not sharing his clothes. Tomas is confused because Jeanne has her own clothes already and why does she want Rory's?

They keep shouting for a while, but they're always shouting so that's not a big surprise. Tomas knows better than to try interrupting, but after a while Rory looks up and notices him. "What do you want?" he asks.

"Can I play with you?" Tomas asks hopefully.

"You're a baby," Jeanne says.

"I'm only one year littler!" he protests.

"Yea," Jeanne says. "But it's an important year. When you're seven you're still a baby, but when you're _eight_ you're a big kid."

"That's not fair!" Tomas whines. "Last year you said six was a baby and seven was a big kid!"

"Go play with Philippe," Rory says.

"He's boring!"

"Go climb the Christmas tree again."

He scowls and kicks at the door frame. "Maman said I'd have to go to bed early if I did that again. Never mind. I don't wanna play with you two anyway. You're stupid!” Then he goes running away, trying to tell himself he doesn’t care if they don’t want to play with him. They never do anything but argue with each other and play stupid games Tomas doesn't understand, anyway, weird pretending games.

Downstairs, he finds Uncle Connor in the kitchen. Normally, Tomas doesn’t spend a lot of time with Uncle Connor, but he’s better than stupid Rory and stupid Jeanne. Uncle Connor is talking to himself when Tomas comes in, grumbling unhappily. Tomas sits down in one of the chairs and sort of droops sadly across the table, chin on his arms.

"…like to see you try baking cookies," Uncle Connor is saying. He's mixing something sweet smelling in a big bowl. "Yours wouldn't turn out any better than mine." He pauses a moment, then sighs. " _Father_ ," he says, in a tone of complete exasperation. "I am using plenty of chocolate already, I—"

Despite his protestation, Uncle Connor picks up the bag of chocolate sitting on the counter and dumps it into the bowl. This is followed by a frustrated noise, and Uncle Connor glares at the empty space next to him.

"I thought your papa was dead?" Tomas pipes up. Uncle Connor starts a little bit, and turns around to face him.

"Tomas?" he says. "How long were you sitting there?"

Tomas shrugs. "Why do you talk to your papa if he's dead?"

"I—"

"Do you miss him?"

The only answer Tomas gets is a pained expression, and Tomas doesn't really want to think about boring grownup problems, so he changes the subject. “Why are you making cookies?” he asks. “I never saw you make cookies before.”

Uncle Connor hesitates, then explains in careful words. “Your parents and I have a very old friend,” he explains. “Named Desmond. When I was very young, and had just lost my… when I was hurting badly, Desmond came to visit me. He gave me cookies, because that was the best thing he could think of to help me. They were his Christmas cookies. So now I want to give them back."

"But… Desmond's one of your invisible people, isn't he?" Tomas asks. "That's what papa said."

"Yes," Connor agrees.

“Philippe said he's not real,” Tomas tells him. "He says none of the invisible people are real."

“What do you think?” Uncle Connor asks.

“I dunno.”

Uncle Connor raises his eyebrows, and Tomas shifts uncomfortably in his chair. This always happens when he talks to Uncle Connor—everyone else treats him like a baby (even Rory and Jeanne, even though they're only a little bit older than him), but Uncle Connor doesn't know how to talk to kids so he just talks to Tomas the same way he talks to everyone else. He always asks hard questions, and doesn't like it if Tomas doesn't think before he answers.

So he thinks really hard, and eventually says, "Who cares?"

"Tomas," Uncle Connor says, sounding disappointed.

"No, really!" Tomas insists. "I don't care if your invisible people are real or not. I mean… if they're real then I'm sad I can't see them too. But even if they're not, they make you and maman and papa happy, so it doesn't matter if they're real, right?"

Uncle Connor looks very happy with this answer, and he lets Tomas help him make the cookies. When Philippe walks in a few hours later, Tomas and Uncle Connor are covered in chocolate and flour and sugar, but they've finally figured out how to make the cookies not taste like poop (or not poop, maybe, because Uncle Connor looks sad when Tomas says that's how the first batch tastes).

"What are you doing?" he demands, hands on his hips.

"We are having _fun_!" Tomas giggles. "And making cookies for invisible people, but you can't have any because you don't believe in them. So there!" Then he sticks out his tongue and throws a handful of flour at Philippe, just because he can. When Philippe has gone running off, Tomas looks back at Connor. "If your invisible Desmond comes, will you tell him Merry Christmas for me?"

Uncle Connor smiles at him and pretends not to notice when Tomas steals three of the cookies off the tray.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Altaïr has seen Connor’s manor crowded before, but the first thing that strikes him now is the sheer number of visitors present. He’s standing next to Edward, who’s intently watching Shay put away the contents of a tankard. Connor, Ezio and Aveline are speaking in the corner; Haytham is pacing the room restlessly. Perplexingly, there is an entire tree standing nearby, with ribbons tied around its branches.

“Look who’s joined us!” Edward exclaims. “Maybe he’s close enough. Put him in Desmond’s clothes and we can pretend the guest of honour’s present.”

“You were awaiting Desmond?” Altaïr asks.

“Christmas celebration,” Edward says, waving an arm around the room. “It’s for Desmond’s sake.”

“We’d be celebrating anyway,” Shay corrects him. His speech is a little difficult to follow; it sounds like all the words are fighting to be the first one out of his mouth. “It’s Christmas.”

“Well, yes,” Edward allows, “but it’s a special Desmond-themed celebration. All the customs from the future. Aveline says he’s fond of Christmas but hasn’t had many good ones. And, well, he’s seen his last in his own time, so...”

“He’s seen his last?” Altaïr echoes.

Edward pauses.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he says, unconvincingly. “He hasn’t been born yet, has he? All his Christmases are ahead.”

It’s something that’s been troubling Altaïr. He’s seen the other visitors across a range of ages, but Desmond never seems to be beyond his twenties.

“Anyway, all this effort put into a pleasant Christmas for Desmond, and I think everyone but Desmond’s shown up,” Edward says. “A fine display of gratitude.”

Altaïr frowns. “Desmond cannot choose to come here, can he?”

Edward shrugs. “Still. Could make the effort. Somehow. How are you getting on, Shay? Almost ready for me?”

“Don’t think I could manage much more,” Shay mumbles unsteadily, staring into his tankard.

“Ready for you in what way?” Altaïr asks. Are they planning to fight? Shay doesn’t look fit to handle a blade.

Edward draws breath, and then just sits there, looking at Altaïr, without speaking.

Something ill-advised? Something obscene? Why would Edward hesitate to say?

“I’ve just had a much better idea,” Edward says slowly, his eyes fixed on Altaïr.

“I’ve just drunk a quantirt – a quantity the Atlantic Ocean could drown in,” Shay says, “and you, you’re _changing your mind?_ ”

“No, it’s not in vain, I promise you,” Edward says. He points at Altaïr. “Put him in instead.”

Altaïr isn’t certain of what’s going on, but he has a feeling he isn’t going to like it. “Put me in _what?_ ”

Shay stares at him for a long moment, and then snorts with laughter, and then—

The room’s changed. The... no, he’s... no, it’s the same room, he’s somewhere else. Sitting down. And his mind’s changed. Suddenly it’s like all his thoughts are fish at the bottom of a dark sea, and he has to wait for them to swim up to him before he knows what he’s thinking.

He’s holding a tankard.

“How are you feeling?” It’s Edward’s voice, coloured by laughter.

He’s... he’s Shay. He’s in Shay. Isn’t he?

He has little experience of alcohol. “I feel... strange.”

Some sort of movement at the corner of his vision. The world takes a moment to catch up with his eyes when he turns to look.

Haytham. A Templar. An enemy. He grabs for the sword he isn’t wearing.

No. Haytham. A visitor. Not an enemy, or not always. But still a Templar. Like Maria, like the woman he has somehow found himself travelling with, bold, intelligent, intriguing...

Altaïr lurches to his feet and at once has to seize Haytham’s arm to keep himself upright.

“Shay, what—?” Haytham begins, and then he seems to notice the other Shay where Altaïr used to be. “Have you been foolish enough to allow Edward into your body?”

Edward waves at him. “Here I am. Try another guess.”

Haytham frowns down at the hands on his arm. “I hope we don’t have to cope with duplicate Ezios today.”

“It’s Altaïr,” Shay says. “Keep him on his feet, will you? That body’s not as young as it used to be. I don’t want to come back to anything broken.”

Haytham’s expression changes instantly to wariness. “Altaïr? At which stage of his life?”

“Don’t speak as if I can’t hear,” Altaïr snaps. Or... attempts to snap. It’s somehow difficult to speak with any real force.

“Youngish,” Shay says. “Not so young he’s likely to ruin Christmas by decorating in our guts.”

There was something important Altaïr had to ask. What was it?

“I need to know about Templars,” Altaïr says urgently, clutching at Haytham’s coat.

“I see,” Haytham says. “This isn’t the most subtle attempt at espionage.”

“Do you think an Assassin and a Templar can love each other?”

Haytham stares at him for a long few seconds.

“ _Answer me_ ,” Altaïr growls, trying to remember his interrogation techniques. “Answer me, and perhaps I will let you live.” He tries to display his hidden blade threateningly, realising too late that there is a flaw in his plan. “Shay, where are your blades?”

“We’re having a pleasant Christmas on the homestead!” Shay protests. “Who are you expecting me to kill?”

“I think it’s possible for an Assassin and a Templar to love each other, certainly,” Haytham says, carefully. “The man you’re possessing is evidence of that. But the specific Assassin and Templar must be considered.”

Altaïr drags himself up to Haytham’s ear. “I am the Assassin,” he confides in a whisper.

“Yes,” Haytham says. “Yes, I was rather afraid of that.”

“You think no Templar could love me?” Altaïr demands. It’s a fear that’s been gnawing at him; he’s spilled so much Templar blood. Could Maria ever look at him and see something other than a murderer of her people?

Shay is laughing, he realises, to his anger. He is laying his soul bare, and Shay is _laughing_ at him.

“Sir,” Shay says, “I think he’s talking of Maria.”

Altaïr stares at him. “How do you know of Maria?”

A visit? A visit, it must have been. And his feelings were visible? He has not been subtle enough. He cannot, he _cannot_ let Maria discover his weakness.

Haytham looks strangely relieved. “I think there may be hope there, yes.”

A lie. Altaïr knows it in his gut. A kind lie, but a lie. “I am holding her prisoner. She hates me.”

It seems a pointless effort to stay on his feet. He slips sideways. Haytham barely catches him before he hits the floor.

“You are the one who has done this to me,” Altaïr mutters resentfully. “You and Shay. There was a time when I knew without doubt how to deal with Templars.”

But is that true? He still remembers killing the men on Al Mualim’s list, that strange moment of connection with even the worst of them.

“Shay, can you take your body back?” Haytham asks, dragging Altaïr upright. “I don’t have the patience to coddle a maudlin Altaïr.”

“Already?” Shay says. “Barely had time to enjoy the benefits of a clear head.”

Edward makes a disgusted noise. “A clear head. There’s nothing worse. I’ll take over, if you like.”

“So my options are drunken Altaïr and drunken Edward?” Haytham asks. “What have I done to deserve such riches?”

“They’re not _your_ options,” Shay says. “You’re visiting Connor; you can walk away at any moment. I’m the one who’s stuck with them.”

“Ah, yes, that’s true, isn’t it?” Haytham eases Altaïr down to sit at the table. Altaïr makes no effort to resist; what would the point be? Whether he sits down or not, Maria will still see him as an enemy. “Excuse me.”

Through his misery, Altaïr is vaguely aware of Haytham striding off to the corner, murmuring something into Connor’s ear. The two of them leave the room.

Edward grins. “All right, it’s my turn.”


	7. Chapter 7

It's been a good long while since Edward was properly drunk. That's one of the things Tessa is damnably good at, keeping alcohol from him, and most of the time he doesn't even mind. But it's Christmas, and damned if he's going to stay sober. Shay’s enough of a friend, enough of a proper pirate (even if he calls himself a privateer) to help Edward out in his quest.

The lights are reeling around him--Shay is probably two and a half sheets to the wind (Edward has actually tried sailing like that, literally and figuratively at the same time; it was something less than a total disaster), not enough to be a complete fool but enough to make everything lighter, happier, funnier. Even Connor's cookies are hilarious. "There's bits of chocolate in 'em! Who'd think of a thing like that?"

Aveline smiles tolerantly at Edward and pulls him into a corner where the children can't hear. "Edward, try not to embarrass Shay too much, all right?"

"What? I was jus' likin' the cookies. Ooh!" Edward spies the silly red hat with the white fur trim and crams it on Shay's head. "All right!" he calls. "Santa's here! You're all s'posed to tell me what y'want for Chrishmash." He stumbles back over to Shay’s armchair and pats his lap, looking at Aveline, who shakes her head and smiles. "C'mon, don'tcha want somefing for Chrishmash?" All right, maybe he's two and three-quarters sheets to the wind. Edward's tongue--well, Shay's, but Edward's borrowing it so it feels like his--is stiff and uncooperative in his mouth. And then Edward's traitorous, suddenly drunk mind realizes that Shay's tongue has been places Edward probably doesn't want to think about--sure, _he_ kissed Aveline that one time, but that was just a kiss, that wasn't everything and then some and then some more, ten times over, like Shay's done with her.

"What are you _doing_?" Shay asks from over by the tree as Edward dry-heaves.

"Thinkin' 'bout you 'n' Aveline," Edward hiccups.

"Well, thanks," Shay says sarcastically, and he begins to walk back to his body, but Edward holds up a hand.

"No, 'm all right. 's good, 's good."

Jacob peers into the room with a look of suspicion on her sharp-featured face. Edward's seen her a few times now, but every time hurts him anew, to see _Mary's_ cheekbones and his own nose together on that face. "C'mere, Jakey," he beckons her over. "What ya want for Chrishmas?"

She looks down at him, mightily unimpressed. "Fewer Templars in the world. Particularly drunken Templars."

Edward sighs. "What if...what if your dad was sittin' right here, an' wanted to get you anythin' he could, what would ya want?"

Jacob stares at him a moment, as if searching for hidden traps in his words, then sighs. "I'd want a picture of my mother, if he could draw one. I've a portrait of my father, that Jenny brought over from the old Kenway mansion, but nothing of my mother. And woodcuts in books about her, they could be any woman."

"Don't think your dad could draw too well. Uh...maybe, maybe." Edward rapidly spirals into a bleak depression. Her request is so simple, but he has no idea how he could possibly fulfill it, especially not half-seas over as he is.

Jacob eyes him warily. "You're drunk, Shay," she says bluntly. "You're a silly old drunken Templar and I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

"I dunno either," Edward mumbles, his hat sliding off his head as he sulks. Jacob rolls her eyes and wanders back to the warm kitchen to, presumably, see what Jenny's up to, since Edward's two daughters are thick as thieves most of the time.

Altaïr eyes Edward. "Enjoying your sodden state?"

"Not really," Edward admits. "Goin' all maudlin. Not much better than you. Hey, can ya do me a favor?"

Altaïr examines Edward’s words as if they’re something poisonous he’s found in his shoe. “Perhaps.”

Edward nods. “Good, good. You’re a real friend, Alta-- Alty-- Al. You’re a real friend, Al. Always knew ya had it in ya.”

“Do not call me Al.”

* * *

After dinner, while Shay dozes briefly in his chair, Altaïr sits himself at the writing desk with a fresh sheet of Connor’s best paper. At first he is hesitant with the pens of Connor’s time and the smoothness of the paper, but he gains more confidence, and by the time Connor’s aunts have gone to bed, Altaïr is finished. He shows his picture to Edward, who nods miserably, and they wake Shay and creep up the stairs to Jenny and Jacob’s room. Well, Altaïr and Edward creep, even though nobody can hear them; Shay stumbles with the aftereffects of drink and his oncoming hangover.

Jacob is asleep on the floor beside the bed she gave up to Jeanne, and Edward carefully lays the picture beside her, hopefully out of the path of Jeanne's little feet in the morning. Shay moves Jacob's hand so it's touching the corner of the picture, and she'll see it as soon as she wakes up.


	8. Chapter 8

Desmond’s absence is heavy in the air this Christmas Eve; it feels strange to Haytham, being so close to a full complement of visitors and yet not quite there. But it’s an enjoyable evening regardless. The children have been put to bed, and the seven visitors present have ended up in Shay and Aveline’s bedroom, talking of Christmas – those of them who celebrate it as a matter of course – and of their respective times.

At last, Aveline yawns. “This has been extremely pleasant, and I hope some of you will manage to stay until tomorrow, but I think it’s time to retire.” She smiles. “Connor certainly seems to agree.”

Haytham looks around. Connor has fallen asleep in a chair. There’s something warming in the sight; in his own time, he has difficulty persuading Connor to share an inn room. How has he managed fatherhood so poorly that his own son cannot sleep in his presence?

But, as pleasant as it is to know that Connor will eventually come to trust him, this presents a problem.

“I can’t reach Connor’s room if he’s asleep here,” Haytham says. “Shall I wake him?”

Edward cuts across Shay’s answer. “Why not stay? All the rest of us will be here.”

“Sleep on the floor needlessly?” Haytham asks. “With Connor’s bed empty a couple of doors away? How tempting.”

Edward snorts dismissively. “We both know you’ll end up sleeping on the floor anyway. Or you’ll sleep so far apart you’ll both fall out of the bed. You’re too closed-off to share properly.”

“What would you consider ‘proper’ bed-sharing?”

“If there are people you like around you, why not sleep close?” Edward asks. “Comfort, warmth, it’s a waste not to.”

“I have yet to decide how much I like any of you,” Haytham mutters, without real conviction.

“I could bring through the mattress from Connor’s room,” Aveline suggests. “You could sleep apart from the others on that and escape the horror of human closeness.”

Ezio nods. “That seems to me a solution that suits all.”

“It doesn’t suit me,” Edward objects. “Why don’t _I_ get to use Connor’s mattress?”

“Well?” Ezio asks, looking at Haytham. “Will you stay?”

Haytham pauses. Looks to Aveline and Shay.

“We _can_ keep our hands off each other for a night,” Aveline says. “You’re not the only one here, after all.”

Haytham tries to hide his wince, but he thinks Aveline might catch it; an expression of concern flits across her face.

“Hold on,” Edward says, frowning. “What are you suggesting you might do in front of my baby son?”

“I am not your ‘baby son’,” Haytham says.

“Still,” Edward says. “I think it’s my business if these two make a habit of enjoying their marital bliss in front of you.”

Haytham bristles. “Oh, _my_ conduct is too sordid for you? Has any one of us been spared the sight of that ‘marital bliss’? And remind me how many of our visitors you’ve tried to bed.”

“Only the one,” Edward protests. “There were kisses with no intent, and there was actual bedding, but it was only Aveline I _tried_ —”

“All right,” Shay says, loudly. “We’ve all put a lot of work into decorating for Christmas, and it’d be a shame to ruin our efforts by covering them in Edward’s blood.”

Edward, mercifully, is wise enough to stop talking.

“I suppose I’ll stay,” Haytham says. He nods to Aveline. “Thank you for the offer. I would help carry the mattress if I could.”

“I’ll help,” Shay says.

“Do you have to?” Edward asks. “It’s draughty in the corridor. Let’s stay in the warm.”

Shay, ignoring him, strides for the door. Aveline follows, and so do all their visitors, of course, Edward still grumbling to himself. In a moment Haytham is left alone with his sleeping son.

Haytham sits and watches Connor. He often feels, when he visits his son in these later years, these years when they can almost get along, that something needs to be said between them. An apology, perhaps, although he doesn’t know from which side. Perhaps it will never be said. They’re both too proud, and Haytham is perhaps still too caught up in resentment at his future death, which is not, he feels, an unreasonable response.

When the others return, it is a distraction that Haytham accepts gladly.

Once Connor’s straw mattress has been laid down and his blankets distributed, Haytham settles down on the mattress and looks around. The fire, essential at this time of year, is the only light in the room. Ezio and Edward have already cuddled up together on the floor, wrapped in blankets, as have Shay and Aveline in the bed. Connor is still asleep in his chair. Altaïr... is still standing, frowning down at Ezio and Edward.

Haytham thinks he can guess Altaïr’s concerns. If he lies down in what little space is left on the floor, being drawn into Ezio and Edward’s embrace seems inevitable. It strikes Haytham that he and Connor are not the only ones here who aren’t overly fond of physical closeness.

Eventually Altaïr moves towards the other chair in the room, the one not currently occupied by a sleeping Connor, and Haytham makes himself speak.

“Altaïr,” he says, quietly. “Sleep over here.”

Altaïr gives him a hard, suspicious look.

“Whatever you might think of my allegiance, I can promise that I will give you your space,” Haytham says. “If anything, I have more cause for wariness. Which of us was hanging off which person’s arm earlier, again? I seem to recall it was you climbing over me, but perhaps it was the other way around.”

Altaïr scowls. “I was inebriated. Against my will.”

“Take one side of the mattress,” Haytham instructs him. “Or don’t. It makes no difference to me if you prefer to sleep upright. I only thought I would extend the offer.”

He rolls to face the wall and closes his eyes. He typically prefers to sleep facing into the room – it allows for a quicker reaction if invaders burst in – but he’ll take the risk on this occasion, if the alternative is potentially sleeping face-to-face with Altaïr.

He’s almost asleep when he eventually feels the mattress dip beside him.


	9. Chapter 9

He's warm when he wakes up, warm and comfortable, wrapped up in Edward's arms. He knows they're Edward's, first of all because no one else ever holds him like this, and second because he's learned to recognize what Edward's arms feels like. Desmond moves closer, and he's grateful for the feeling of wood floors under him. That means this isn't the temple. He doesn't have to go back in the animus, he can lie here with Edward and just be himself. He can breathe, just for a little while. It's December 19, 2012. Two days before the end of the world. He still has so much of Connor's life left to see, and there's not enough time, there's never enough time—he'll have to spend the next two days in the animus, probably without a break. Desmond is so, so sick of the animus. He's sick and tired and he just wants it all to be over.

Desmond doesn't open his eyes, because he doesn't really care where he is. He drifts off, landing somewhere between waking and sleep, blissfully relaxed and only half aware of what's going on around him. After a while, Edward shifts a little and then pokes him in the head. "Desmond?" he says, in that peculiar Edward volume that's clearly meant to be a whisper but really isn't. "You're awake?"

He moans and curls up a little tighter. "Sorta."

Edward shakes his shoulder. "Well then get up!"

"I don't wanna."

"But Desmond," Edward whines. "It's Christmas."

It can't be. Desmond's stomach clenches painfully, and his thoughts seem to stutter around him like a scratched CD. Christmas? He wants to see another Christmas so badly. This time, for once in his life, he's going to do it right. With a tree and good food and mistletoe and Christmas carols—all the things he's never had before. Just yesterday, Desmond had been telling Aveline about Christmas, about the way he wants to spend it.

If he survives the end of the world. 

Edward sits up, pulling Desmond with him until they're leaning against a wall. Desmond opens his eyes, and sees—he sees everyone. All his visitors, curled up together. "It's really Christmas?" he asks, in a voice that's still scratchy from sleep and scarcely louder than a breath.

"Cross my heart," Edward says solemnly, making a little X over the wrong side of his chest. "We decorated for you and everything. There's a tree downstairs, and Connor made cookies—and why didn't you ever tell me about mistletoe? That's the best Christmas tradition I ever heard of!"

"It never came up," Desmond says, when he stops gaping at Edward long enough to speak. "You really did all that for me?"

"Well it was Christmas anyway," Edward says. "But Aveline said we should do this for you, because—" he stutters around whatever he was going to say then finishes (rather lamely), "Because we like you."

"Can I go see?" Desmond asks.

"'Course," Edward says. "That's the whole point. So as soon as whoever you're visiting wakes up—ah…" he glances around at Connor and Shay and Aveline. "You're kind of spoiled for choice here, aren't you? Any idea which of them it is?"

Desmond shrugs and shakes his head. Then he jumps as Edward decides to take the initiative.

"Hey!" Edward shouts (at full, horrifying volume). "Everyone wake up—ah!"

Altair jumps up and leaps at Edward—he's got a blade to Edward's throat before his eyes are even open. When he processes who it is he's threatening, Altair grunts and steps off him. "Why would you wake a roomful of assassins by shouting at them?" he asks. "Why? Do you have a death wish?"

"No," Edward grumbles. The rest of the room is waking more slowly, stretching and groaning and swearing at Edward. "And it's assassins _and_ templars, technically. Oh! And Desmond's here."

Desmond goes faintly pink as everyone stares at him, and then Aveline gets up and hugs him. "You made it," she says. "I'm so glad."

"You really wanted me here?" Desmond asks.

"Wanted you—Desmond, you're the guest of honor."

He hugs her back, hugs her hard, and then looks around. "Can I go downstairs now?"

Somehow, as they're all trying to squeeze their way out of the room at once, Desmond gets far enough away from Connor to figure out that's who he's visiting, but he isn't really paying attention because it doesn't really matter—he's running downstairs like a child on Christmas morning and there's a tree, with presents underneath (Desmond doesn't imagine for a second that any of them are for him, but it just looks so much like Christmas that it's hard to care). He stops in the doorway, looking back at Connor. He looks only vaguely annoyed at being dragged after Desmond. Clearly he is the one Desmond is visiting.

"Can I—" he stops, uncertain.

"What?"

"Can I borrow your body?" Desmond asks. "Just for a second? I want to _really_ be here. Just—it's stupid but…"

He's in Connor before he can finish the sentence. Breathing in actual, Christmas air. He's grinning stupidly (it feels all wrong on Connor's face), but he's happy. Desmond had sort of assumed he wasn't going to get another chance to be happy again before the end of the world.

"Dad!"

"What?"

A teenager he doesn't recognize has joined the crowd of visitors gradually filtering their way inside. He's hugging Desmond—technically, the hug is probably meant for Connor—and it takes Desmond a second to really process this. He's not used to being called dad, and he doesn't really expect that will ever change. "Merry Christmas," the boy says, and Desmond manages an awkward pat on the back before giving Connor's body back to him.

"That's Matthew," Ezio explains when he notices Desmond's confused face. "Connor's son."

"I thought he left," Desmond says.

"He came back."

"Oh." Desmond looks at the smile on Connor's face. "Good. I'm glad."

Eventually, Aveline and Shay's four kids come out to join them as well, and so do Connor's two aunts. The whole room seems to light up with a kind of beautiful chaos, it's warm and packed full of people, and this is the Christmas-iest Christmas Desmond has ever experienced. He just sits back in a corner with his visitors, beaming at everything.

After a while, Connor sits down next to him and offers up a clumsily wrapped present.

"What's this for?"

"You," Connor says. "It's Christmas."

Desmond carefully unwraps the present and finds a plate filled with cookies. "You made cookies?"

"You gave me cookies right after my mother died," Connor says, just a shade uncomfortably. "Aveline says cookies are a Christmas tradition in your time, so I thought I could pay you back."

"I don't…" his eyes go wide. "I _do_ remember that!" But how can he remember visiting when he was five? That was twenty years before he'd first gone into an animus. Maybe the bleeding effect is starting to affect his earlier memories. Maybe—

Maybe he should just eat the cookies. "Thanks," Desmond says. He eats a cookie in silence, smiling softly. "The cookies I gave you—they were supposed to be for Santa. So they were Christmas cookies too."

This is when Shay starts shouting at his youngest son for climbing the tree ("We keep telling you to stop doing that!") and everything gets a little loud. Desmond laughs and moves a little way back from the tree. Just in case it falls on him. He ends up next to Haytham, and offers him a cookie. 

"How are they?" Haytham asks, looking at the treat almost distrustfully. "They don't look like they have enough chocolate in them. I kept telling Connor to use more--"

"They're really good," Desmond promises. Haytham takes a bite and nods in surprise.

"They are." He puts his arm around Desmond's shoulders and squeezes. It's just a little awkward, maybe, but Desmond smiles anyway and leans close. It's Christmas (sort of), and Christmas is a time for family. Even if it's just the bleeding effect from Connor that's telling Desmond that Haytham is his dad, he doesn't have the strength to fight it anymore. He'll take what he can get. "Is this what Christmas really looks like in your time?" Haytham asks.

"Well—" he's never had anyone to celebrate with. He's basing his idea of normal off what he's seen on TV. “It's pretty close."

"What's missing?"

"Christmas carols, I guess."

"Oh!" Ezio leans over, interrupting their conversation. "I remember those! You told me about them.”

“Well, yea,” Desmond says quickly. “But don't—“

Ezio starts singing before Desmond can even get the protest all the way out.

Edward boos him loudly, and Aveline throws a pillow in his general direction. Ezio starts singing even louder, and soon everyone is shouting and throwing things at him. The non visitors in the room look wildly confused (most of them, anyway—the kid that had been trying to climb the tree earlier looks delighted that people have started throwing things). It's… It's insane and crazy and—

Desmond can't stop laughing. This isn't the crazy oh shit I can't believe how messed up my life is laughter that he's gotten used to in the last few months. It's a genuine, smile-stuck-on-his-face laugh that makes his stomach hurt. Must be the muscles there he hasn't used in a while. 

The visit seems to last forever, and yet suddenly forever seems like far too short a time. Desmond has never stayed an entire day on a visit before, but this time he doesn't leave until well after dark. The little tree climbing boy has passed out on Aveline’s lap by this point, and the older kids have gone somewhere else to bother each other. Things have gone quiet and Edward has even given up on following people around with the mistletoe. There's a general air of contented peace throughout the house, and Desmond is starting to feel tired and relaxed. 

He's not trying to sleep. He doesn't want to close his eyes and miss a single moment of this day. But he's so tired—he’s always tired now that he's been moved to a busier animus schedule—and before he knows it he's dead to the world. 

The last thing he knows is Edward lying down next to him, wrapping him in a hug even better than the one he'd started the day with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone. Thanks for reading.


End file.
